


For My Sake

by plinys



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February Trope Bingo, Future Fic, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don't die while I’m away.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	For My Sake

**Author's Note:**

> It's my super rare pair that like nobody else ships oops, also filling the "secret relationship" square on my bingo card.

“Don't die while I’m away.”

The words roll off Arya’s tongue like a joke and a warning all at once.

Shireen would be a fool not to see the way the rest of her court reacts, each tensing in their seats under the gaze of the she-wolf, but it is Shireen who Arya’s gaze settles upon last.

Any other person would refuse to meet their queen’s eyes whether out of respect for royalty of disgust with her marred appearance, but Arya has never had that problem. Her eyes are wild with defiance and wonder as they meet Shireen’s, reminding her far too well of the last time she saw that gaze fixed on her, by the flickering of a candle light in her bed chambers.

“I will try not to,” Shireen replies, keeping her gaze steady and strong, “though you know what they say, a crown’s half a death penalty.”

There’s something vicious in her grin, something that Shireen has always found intoxicating, “manage to hold out a few more months, for my sake,” she says, tacking on a respectful, “your grace,” just a moment too late to be entirely proper.

“I’ll do my very best.”

\---

Arya doesn’t write letters often enough for Shireen’s liking.

On the rare chance that she manages to send something back when she’s abroad the letters are short, functional statements of fact or rumor. After all, it is the duty of the Master of Whispers to provide information to her queen about the goings on in various places.

Arya writes each word like it pains her, stating the obvious as she does so.

She’ll write things simple – _it’s cold in the north_ , she says in one letter, while in another she’ll write that it rained in the Stormlands – such obvious and useless things that Shireen often thinks of throwing the whole lot of them out as rubbish.

Until she reads between the lines and sees what Arya is not saying – _the storms reminded me of you._

So she’ll pick up a quill and write her own reply, delicate letters flowing out useless words that she does not know if the other woman will even bother to read.

\---

 

When Arya returns she brings gifts back with her.

It’s a tradition of theirs.

First are the public gifts, presented to her while she holds court on her iron throne.  

It is during those times that Ayra brings her books.

Books from strange parts of the lands, wrapped in the types of expensive and vibrant cloths that had only dreamed of as girl, that makes Shireen want to close court of the day in order to lock herself away in her library reading them. There are stories in these musty pages that mean more to her than any jewel could, and Shireen promises to treasure them in front of all her court.

When Arya smiles in return dipping low into a bow as though that were all she brought, Shireen knows better.

Then there’s the _gift_ Arya brings to the small council chambers.

These gifts are brought to her like a cat dropping a dead rat at its masters feet, a peace offering that never sits well with Shireen.

Sometimes they’re meant to be nice.

A young man, dressed in silks to matching the coverings of her books fresh off a boat from Essos, who called her his dear cousin rather than her grace.

Other times they’re less pleasant.

The hand of a traitor, blood dried and near to rotting that Shireen nearly loses her appetite right there in her council chambers.

The purpose of Arya’s disappearance becomes all too clear in these gifts.

However, it is the third set of gifts that Shireen waits for.

They are the reason she leaves her door unlocked the night of Arya’s return, even though every advisor and member of her queen’s guard would advise against it, and even though Arya is more often known to slip in through the window rather than open a door.

It’s there on those nights, with the ghosting of fingers on her bare shoulder, that she gets her favorite gifts.

Arya clasping a far too expensive necklace of pearls or diamonds around her neck, before she leans in a presses a kiss to Shireen’s shoulder, and then to the other one – showing no discrimination to her marred body.

She’ll turn to meet Arya’s lips then, to pull her away from her ministrations and instead bring them together, as she has so often desired while the other woman was away. They will kick Shireen’s fine sheets to the ground, tear at hems and buttons with desperate fingers until there is nothing standing in the way of each other.

It is in that moment, when Arya brings her the pleasure she had been so deprived of, when Shireen receives her favorite gift of all.

\---

“I would have you go away more often, if it means you would return always in with this passion.”

“That is good,” Arya agrees after a moment, her own breath broken, far less composed than Shireen is so soon after their release, “for I have business in Dorne to attend to before the next moon.”

“No, you must be jesting,” Shireen says, momentarily distressed, “I’ve only just gotten you back.”

“I will be back before you know it.”

“What if I refuse to let you leave? I am the queen. I could find a way, surely.”

That gets a laugh out of Arya if nothing else, “you know the Red Keep cannot keep me here, I’ve learned all of the tunnels and paths away.”

“This is true,” Shireen agrees reluctantly.

“I also happen to know all of the paths back home.”

The way she says it _home_ , sets something off inside Shireen, a warmth that fills her whole body.

“Try not to get yourself killed in Dorne, for my sake?”

“I’ll try, your grace.”


End file.
